Another scheme, entirely new,
Is hammering on his anvil too,
That frightens christian, turk, and jew.
A frigate,[B] mounting thirty six!—
Who'er with her a quarrel picks
Will little get but cuffs and kicks:
[B] The steam frigate Fulton the First: Qui me percellit morti debetur—who strikes at me to death is doomed!—Freneau's note.
A frigate meant to sail by steam!—
How can she else but torture them,
Be proof to all their fire and flame.
A feast she cooks for England's sons
Of scalded heads and broken bones
Discharged from iron hearted guns.
Black Sam[C] himself, before he died,
Such suppers never did provide;—
Such dinners roasted, boil'd, and fry'd.
[C] A character well known in New York several years since, remarkable for elegance and luxurious refinements in the art of cookery.—idem.
To make a brief of all I said—
If to attack they change blockade
Their godships will be well repaid
With water, scalding from the pot,
With melted lead and flaming shot,
With vollies of—I know not what,
The british lads will be so treated:
Their wooden walls will be so heated,
Their ruin will be soon completed.